Our Girl
by LaceyBird
Summary: Alternative ending to Our Girl. Was written before S5 aired. (Originally posted under pen name Glitterberryy)


****AN: so here's an alternative ending that came to me in a dream on night. It's my first attempt at writing anything other than five-0, so please be gentle! I do not own anything related to Our Girl, other than the second half of this plot!****

****Read and Review!****

****Lacey ****

****xox****

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><p><strong><strong>Our Girl<strong>**

"Smurf; eyes on that Farmer and covering West," Captain James orders as the small group of five soldiers trudge along the bridge, senses on high alert as the remaining section take their positions up, covering their backs. "Dawes," James turns to Molly, "You're to examine the back of the truck."

Molly offers no reply, doesn't need to because an order is an order, and everyone, including herself, knows that the success of this mission is resting on her and her ability to identify the man she'd shared less than five seconds of her time with. She ignores the way her heart pounds in her chest, beating against sternum, thud-thudding with each step she takes towards the truck stopped short of crossing the border. She glances up at the tattered Afghan flag rippling in the warm breeze, tries to stifle the anxiety building up, tears her eyes away from the worn fabric as she approaches the vehicle.

At a quick glance, nothing seems out of place; Qaseem heads towards the front of the truck, and the driver – not Badrai, Molly notes – seems to be co-operative, isn't armed with a weapon.

"Salam alaikum," she greets the women, echoes James, hand on her chest, as she turns back to the taxied occupants. They huddle together, the girls leaning into their mothers, refusing to look at either Molly or Capt. James, something that arouses suspicion. Molly's been on tour nearing six months, has visited more villages in Afghanistan then she has at home, has come to realise that the women and children are more friendly, open, than the local men – the latter often believe the Army is doing more harm than good, that they're better off without them. She leans to the left again, peers around the side of the truck to observe the driver – who is definitely not the target – doesn't like the way fear moulds his face, even if he tries to hide it.

"Everything looking as it should do, Dawes?" James asks from beside her as Molly straightens back up.

"Something ain't right, Boss," she turns to him, can't ignore the uncertainty swirling in her stomach, can't say for certain that these figures, dressed head to toe in dark, opaque fabrics, are cleared to cross the border, out of their territory, that they aren't being used as a distraction. Before James can reply, a loud _crack!_ disturbs the air, only takes a millisecond for brains to register 'gunshot', before they're ducking, crouching low, heads down.

"Was that contact?" James calls out, straightens up and aims his gun in the direction of the sound, eyes peering down the scope, searching for the culprit, as panicked screams from inside the truck and military orders being barked from afar disturb the otherwise quiet scene.

"Smurf, what the fuck are you doing?" Corporal Kinders yells, just loud enough for Molly to hear, to direct her attention to her best friend, standing in the same spot he'd been ordered to, gun trained on the Farmer he'd been instructed to watch. Molly curses when she spots the dead goat, the distraught Farmer kneeling beside his pet, his livelihood, hands in the air, exclaiming something in his native language – one Molly had yet to learn.

"Smurf, what the fuck are you doing? Does that farmer even have a gun?" She hears James yell as he takes a few steps backwards, gun still aimed, unable to identify a threat, orders everyone to hold their fire.

"Put your gun down, Smurf," Molly calls over to him, the previous concerns over his mental well being, his capability of doing the job, creeping back in as she registers his face, twisted by anger and hate.

"Smurf what the fuck happened?" James asks, and Molly takes a step forward, strains her ears to listen to the conversation, can barely catch the words as they're carried on the gentle breeze.

"You. That's what fucking happened," Smurf answers, brow furrowed as he turns to their Commanding Officer. Molly takes another, smaller step, is confused by the disgust on Smurf's face, can't see James' expression.

"What are you talking about?"

"You ruined everything!" Smurf snaps, and Molly hears it clearly, can already make a guess at what's going though her best friend's mind, the ring weighing heavily around her neck, cold silver against hot skin.

"What?"

"I looked in."

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, but you will put your weapon down now, Smurf!" James takes another step towards the irate Private, and Molly wants to kick herself, kick James, because she knows, she gets it. _He looked in_. She swallows hard, tries not to panic, hopes the rest of Section 2 can't hear the conversation, because right now, Smurf's risking her career, risking James' career, risking the whole damn platoons lives over a little jealousy.

"Are you all right, Smurf?" She asks through the communications system, her voice steadier than she feels, hopes it's enough to calm the man that's fallen in love with his best friend, the man that's just had his whole world shattered by the man he'd declared to be the closest thing to a Father that he's ever had.

"Boss, what the Hell's going on?" Kinders bellows as the rest of the platoon awaits for orders.

"Hold your positions!" James returns, voice louder, before turning back to Smurf. "Smurf, put your gun down."

"Worried I might shoot you?"

"What's happened? Is the target in the truck, Boss?" Kinders persists, reminds Molly of her task at hand, how they're being distracted. The cries of the women and children behind her earn a quick glance, and everything feels wrong, a mess.

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, but you will put your gun down now, Smurf," James orders, loudly, takes a small step forward, shoulder tense. "Lower your gun, Smurf."

"I'd have laid down my life for you, Boss. And Molly," Smurf declares, and Molly feels her hear skip a beat, the words confirming her fears, a lump forming in her throat, wonders how the Hell James just isn't getting it.

"Private Smith, lower your gun now. That is an order!"

"But she wants _you _to be the last thing she sees," Smurf continues, and Molly knows now; James gets it. His back tenses, straightens a little, shoulders square as his gun lowers slightly. _He gets it_.

"Sir, we need to ID the people in the truck and get it moving," Qaseem yells from his spot next to the cab, the driver stood with him, eyes wide, confused. Molly tears her eyes away from the two men standing just a few feet away from her, pushes all concerns of their careers out of her mind, tries to suppress any fears she has for her best friends mental well being as she turns and concentrates her focus on each figure huddled in the back of the vehicle, despite Smurf's ramblings happening in the background.

The young girls with their faces uncovered are instantly dismissed in Molly's head, as she visually works over the women, one by one. Eyes trail over the first blue burqa, land on the baby cradled in a blanket, and Molly's relieved when she notes the hands are too young, too feminine to be Badrai's. She then proceeds to use that method of identification for the others dressed similarly, where eyes and face's are unidentifiable.

"Dylan Smith, you are endangering this entire mission and the lives of your fellow soldiers. You do not bring personal on to the battle field, is that understood?!" James yells, shatters Molly's concentration as she chances a glimpse at her comrades over her shoulder, only turns back when she sees that Smurf has no intention of backing down, that they were running out of time, that she has a task to complete quickly, before they can draw too much unwanted attention upon themselves. She's ready to shake her head, to clear the truck, to admit that they'd been given false intel, lead astray probably so their target could escape another way, dodge any capture, but then those cold, brown eyes look at her, lock onto her soft green ones. A chill runs up Molly's spine, heart stammers, goosebumps cover her skin, hairs stand on end, despite the blistering heat.

"Boss! Boss!" She yells, backing up, one leg behind the other, quickly, urgently. "Boss! It's Badrai!" She turns on her heel, eyes barely catching a glimpse of the detonator clasped in their enemy's hand, as she forces her legs to work as fast as she can, dropping her pack as she goes, the weight only holding her back. "He's got a bomb!" She wills her heavy legs to work harder, faster, as she heads back up the bridge, towards her commanding officer, watches as the James lunges forwards, knocking Smurf to the ground, and then the world implodes around them. A strong force, hard and hot, slams into Molly's back, lifts her from her feet and throws her through the air. And then, there's nothing.

* * *

><p>A tenacious humming breaks through the barrier of silence, increases in volume, encouraging Molly to reach for the surface. Awareness slowly edges into her sub-conscience as fractured memories filter through the thick fog of concussion and confusion, realisation following suit as she tries to piece together the information, work out who she is, where she is, what's happening to her.<p>

"Dawes, can you hear me?"

Snippets of a truck transporting women and children, Captains James and Smurf arguing, and cold, brown eyes that bore down into her soul, sending shivers through her body and causing hair to stand on end. She can feel the panic creeping up her back, her heart almost ready to explode as she turns to run — _run for her life –_remembers her eyes locking onto Captain James' as he turns to her, face masked by fear, or shock, or surprise; she isn't sure. Remembers the blast, knocking her off her feet as her world is swallowed by a blazing inferno.

"Dawes. Open your eyes."

Molly tries to push through the blanket smothering her mind, eager to find James, find Smurf, figure out what the Hell went wrong.

"Molly!"

The urgent, and almost scared, pleas pierce through to Molly's sub-conscience, dragging her to the surface where nothing but pain and anguish awaits. She can't suppress the groan that escapes her mouth; her body is on fire, everything hurts, and she's certain that someone is pummelling her ribcage. She tries to force a deep lungful of air into her chest, fails when she immediately begins to sputter, choking on gritty atmosphere, ends with body jerking coughs that threaten to cave in her chest and explode her brain.

"Easy, Dawes."

Flashes of light puncture the darkness, makes her wince, shy away, but there's no escaping because it's right there, in front of her, beside her, all around her. It takes a moment – a long one – for her to realise her lids are opening, eyes trying to adjust to the brilliant Afghan sun as it beats down relentlessly, rays slicing through a hazy cloud of dust and sand.

"I, uh, need your help, Dawes."

The buzzing continues around her, fading in and out, as if tuning into a distant radio station. A few words filter through the white noise – man down, take cover, bomb, contact, fire – and it's enough to jolt her back to reality, to kick start her instincts, to allow her brain to process the information entering through her ears; frantic footfalls, guns firing, calm but imperative orders given and received over the communication system that's somehow managed to stay attached to Molly's head, even if her helmet hasn't.

"Dawes? You with us?"

The humming tunes into a familiar sound; Captain James, Molly identifies, as she turns her head, neck stiff, towards the direction of the voice that can offer a little comfort. Another groan, as she attempts to open her mouth, jaw aching.

"Boss," she manages, forcing the words passed a dry mouth before flicking her tongue out to run across chapped lips. Her mouth tastes of metal; blood. She winces as the one word bounces around her head, ricochetting off skull, wants to mash her brain.

"Are you hu-hurt?"

Molly wiggles her fingers, rotates her wrists before lifting her heavy arms to inspect them, is relieved to find them attached and functioning as they should. She grits her teeth, wraps her left arm around her torso, attempting to hold herself together despite the tightly fitted tactical vest, as she pushes herself up onto her right elbow, then into a sitting position. Huffs out a breath of air as she notes two attached legs, albeit one badly burned with trouser melted to skin, but attached nonetheless. "Am okay," she nods gingerly, her head throbbing with each beat of her heart. "A few broken ribs, a second or third degree burn to the leg, and a banging headache, Sir," she reports, before turning her head slowly to look over at the Commanding Officer, propped against the stark white wall. "You?"

"Been b-better," James replies, offers a small, wry smile on pale, parched lips. Molly senses something is wrong, before she even allows her eyes to trail over his body; down his scuffed and bruised face, over his torso, landing on the dark, crimson patch growing on the dusty camo's, at the top of his thigh, underneath dirty, white fingers as he feebly attempts to apply pressure. Her heart squeezes hard, adrenaline releases and numbs some of her pain as she grits her teeth, uses her right arm and left leg to move herself towards the Boss, bites back a cry as ribs threaten to shift, tries to keep her head low as more gunshots fire, echoing off the tall mountains.

"Let's have a butchers 'en, Sir," she pants as she reaches his side, ignores the blood smeared drag marks on the Afghan dirt; evidence of Captain James moving himself, trying to get into a better position so he could try and stem some of the bleeding. She pulls the scissors from it's sheath in her vest, rips open the trouser leg in quick, jerking movements, pushing back any panic that arises as she tries to ignore the way the blood has began to trickle down the path. She glances up at an ashen face, glassy eyes watching her, before she places her hand over his sticky one, slides it away to be met with spurting, hot liquid. "Shit," Molly curses, ripping her hand away from James' to put over the wound, pushes down with all her might, doesn't falter when ribs protest, eyes scanning for her medical kit, clocks the platoon firing upon some insurgents Molly can't see from her position on the road, too far away and too busy to lend her a hand. "Hey, stay with me, Sir," Molly commands as James' eyes begin to roll. "I'm going to get you out of here, but you need to stay with me." She isn't comforted much by the weak nod in reply, even if his eyes do snap back open.

A groan, deep and throaty, sounds from somewhere behind her, grabs at Molly's attention.

"Smurf!" Molly yells, glancing over her shoulder at the body sprawled on the ground a few feet away, before turning back to stare down at blood stained hands. "Are you okay?" Warm, red liquid oozes, trickles down her fingers, under nails before dripping down into a pool on the ground. "Smurf!" She waits for three laboured breaths before she tears her gaze away, twists her body just enough to elicit a gasp of pain as ribs grind, to lay eyes on her unlikely best friend. "Are you hurt?"

"I-I don't think so," Smurf shakes his head, before baby blues lock onto Molly's green eyes.

"Can you move?" Molly proceeds, blinks against the stars in her vision as her headache relents. "I need you to tell me if anything hurts." Smurf nods, gingerly moves his arms, pats down his torso, pulls himself into a sitting position, cries in pain when he shifts his right foot.

"My ankle!" he gasps, face screwed up. "I think it's broken!"

"Okay, I'm going to need you to do a bit of self treatment," Molly instructs, turning back to monitor James' bleeding, estimates that at least half of his blood volume is pooling around them.

"I can't," Smurf squeaks, and Molly twists to face him again.

"Yes, you can," she nods. "I can't leave Bossman, or he'll bleed out. I need you to lift your trousers, make sure there's no protrusion."

"Protrusion? What's that?"

"Just make sure you can't see any bone, ya tosser."

"Right, no bone," Smurf nods, face paling as he reaches down to pull his trouser leg from his boots, howls in pain as Molly returns her attention to Captain James, continues to shout over her shoulder.

"Smurf?"

"I'm good," he pants. "I can't see...there's no bone."

"That's good," Molly sighs in relief. "Can you wiggle your toes?"

"It fucking hurts," he pushes through clenches teeth, "But I can wiggle 'em."

"That's good," Molly repeats, "I need you to stay low, call in a medevac." Her eyes leave the her blood stained hands to observe James' breathing; shallow and quiet. Her eyes find his face, and she doesn't like the pale complexion or blue tinged lips. "Bloody Hell, Sir. You don't do things by halves, do you?" she jokes lightly, offers a comforting smile, grasps onto the small amount of hope as she listens to Smurf calling in for an emergency medical evacuation. "How long was I out, Boss?"

"Dunno. Maybe a c'ple minutes," James slurs, blinks sluggishly, as if he's exhausted, hasn't slept in days.

"You should have woken me sooner," Molly huffs sarcastically, only receives a faint nod in return. "Just stay awake for me, okay? There's a medevac on the way."

"How's Bossman?" Smurf asks from behind her, and Molly doesn't stall, doesn't have time to weigh up her options, the pro's and con's of being honest.

"A piece of shrapnel has torn his femoral artery. I need my pack. He's bleeding out," she relays, eyes scanning for something that just isn't there. "Can you see it?"

"No. The blast must have got it good," Smurf determines, confirms Molly's fears, and she reaches up, wipes the sweat beading on her forehead with a red, sticky hand, doesn't care for the blood smearing across her skin.

"I don't know what to do," she admits, quietly, shaking her head, eyes misting. "I don't know what to do." She looks at the face she's become fond of, the stubble seemingly darker against the greying skin, eyes half closed as they struggle to stay focused on her, lips slightly parted. She feels helpless without her pack, hysteria rumbling in her chest, sobs threatening to break out as she mentally curses the Army for not preparing her for this; for not teaching her how to save a life with nothing but her own bare hands, for not teaching her how to save the life of the man she loves as he bleeds out on the battlefield. "I don't know what to do," she repeats, almost chanting, struggles to breath as her brain bashes against skull, leaves stars in her vision. "I don't know what -"

"Dawes," James interrupts, voice quiet and hoarse, the weakness in contrast to his usual strength, as he moves his stagnant hand slowly, slides it over hers as she presses down harder, feebly attempting to stop the last of his life giving fluids from leaking out of his body. "Y'r'a damn good medic. Do your job."

"I can't," Molly whispers, shaking her head slightly, eyes wide with panic as a tear overspills her waterline, runs down her blood and dirt streaked face.

"Y'can," James forces out, louder, determined. "Don't bring personal -"

"-Onto the battlefield, I know," Molly finishes, before taking in a deep a breath as her ribs will allow to compose herself, closes her eyes as she tries to drown out her surroundings, push back any personal feelings, drag every little piece of information she'd learned in her training to the surface of her throbbing brain. "Tourniquet, pressure, pack wound with gauze, tape," she mumbles, loud enough only for her to hear. "Arterial bleeds need steralising with iodine before using sterile clamps to clamp off the artery." Her eyes open, body trembling as more blood pumps below her hand, precious seconds ticking by. "I need clamps, I need my kit, I don't have the right equipment -" she begins, allows a sob to pass her lips as she looks down at the growing puddle of blood, pooling around their bodies, under her knees, trickling along the road, dripping over the edge of the bridge, than back at her hands, her fingers. "Okay," she nods, swallowing hard, blinking against the water in her eyes. "I think I have an idea." She bites her lip, doesn't have time to doubt herself, to worry about the pain she's about to inflict on the man she needs to survive. "I'm sorry, Sir, but this is going to hurt." Another breath, and then she's releasing her pressure, ripping open the hole in the trouser leg a little more, stretching the wound with one hand, and plunging her other inside the leg to find the culprit artery. She does, quickly, before clamping down on it with forefinger and thumb.

Captain James roars, body writhes in agony, even with the little energy he has left, but Molly reaches across with her spare hand, applies enough pressure to the shoulder to still him. "I've got it, Sir," she breathes, before glancing back down to double check. "I've bleedin' done it. I've got it." She lets out a quiet, nervous laugh, relief easing the weight on her shoulders, before looking up, seeking approval from her Commanding Officer, expecting a little praise, a congratulations for thinking on her feet. Her heart skips a beat and nausea swirls in her stomach when she, instead, finds a slack face, eyes closed. "Boss?" She shifts, leans over to feel for a pulse at his neck, only feels a little appeased when she feels a thready, barely there thud-thud. "Boss, wake up," she orders, dropping her hand from his jugular to his shoulder, shakes him gently, careful not to let her grip slip. "Hey, come on Sleeping Ugly." She pats his cheek, before moving back to his shoulder to give another, firmer shake. "Captain James!"

"Molly?" Smurf's voice sounds behind her, concern etched deep, had obviously overheard her trying to rouse their leader. Lids flicker, and pain filled eyes seek hers.

"'M'kay." James lips curve slightly as he relaxes further against the wall.

"Oh, thank God," Molly sighs, before shouting over her shoulder, "He's okay!" She pinches a little tighter, aware her grip is the only thing from keeping James from succumbing to death. "You had me worried there, Sir."

"Anyone else," he stammers, clears his throat, winces, "Hurt?"

"I don't know," Molly shakes her head, glances over at the remains of the truck, can make out scattered body parts, burning wheels, flecks of blue burqas. "Smurf's got a broken leg."

"Anythin' t'...skive off...duty," James smirks sarcastically, eyes rolling slightly before he fights to keep them centered on Molly. "Treat him...leave me."

"Nah, he's all right, Sir," Molly replies, shaking her head, recoils slightly as her brain rattles. She tears her eyes away from the concerned glare, hollers over her shoulder at her comrade. "Smurf, you're all right, ain't ya?"

"Yeah, just hurts like a bitch!" He replies, nodding, giving a thumbs up for both Molly and James to see.

"Welsh pussy!" Molly calls back, smiling, before turning back to James. She gives him a gentle shake as his eyes begin to close. "Ay, Sir, you gotta stay awake. Medevac will be here any second, now."

James' eyes open halfway, his body exhausted, the blood loss forcing everything to shut down in order to preserve major organs.

"M'sorry," he mumbles, barely above a whisper, just loud enough for Molly to hear.

"You ain't going soft on me, are ya, Bossman?" Molly scoffs.

"Let my...focus...slip."

"It weren't your fault. It was mine," she shakes her head, "If I hadn't got involved with Bashira -" Molly stops as silence falls around them, gunfire ceasing, voices muted. She glances up, spots the platoon advancing forwards, towards their targets.

"What's happening?" Captain James' eyes force open, concern for his platoon to cause an adrenaline surge, tries to sit himself up better.

"Stay still!" Molly scolds, pinning down one of his shoulders. "They're just making sure they got 'em, okay?"

They wait with baited breath, the silence around them eerie, hearts pounding in chests, afraid to move, to speak.

"Threat neutralised. All five insurgents are deceased." Kinders voice echoes through the headset, and Molly sighs in relief as James' body relaxes.

"Yeah! Take that, Motherfuckers!" Smurf cheers, fist pumping the air, victorious.

"All right, Smurf," Molly shoots over her shoulder. "Your Mother would be ashamed of that language."

"Just so happens, my Mother ain't here, Mol. You gonna grass on me?"

"I might," Molly jokes, turns her attention back onto James, expects to see a smile at hers and Smurf's light hearted banter, instead finds his head lolled to one side, eyes closed, mouth slack. "Sir, wake up," she orders, reaches over and shakes his shoulder, then again harder when she gets no responce. "Sir, come on." She moves her hand, places it under his head and lifts it up. "Sir?" She drops his head, slaps his cheek, squeezes her claw like grip tighter, ignores the cramp threatening to settle in. "Captain James!" Reaches up to palm her forehead, where pressure builds up against skull, as tired lids peel back to reveal almost lifeless eyes.

"Y'bleedin'," James whispers, eyes tracing Molly's hair line.

"I'm okay," she insists, wiping away the smudge of blood from her head, unsure if it's hers or his, wonders if she's leaking grey matter from her eyes, nose or ears. Nausea sends her stomach into a spasm, bile claws at her throat, and she wishes for a reprieve. She involuntarily shivers, hopes she's never going to suffer another concussion ever again, because this, by far, is the worst migraine she's ever suffered – and she's had a few on the mornings after the nights before.

"W's wrong?"

"Nothing," she insists, looking to the sky, praying for the medevac to make it's appearance, because the more James slurs his words, the closer he is to letting go. "It's just a concussion, Sir. Might gonna need a few paracetamol when we get back. But don't worry, I've got you. I'm not gonna let you go."

"S'not what m'worried 'bout," James sighs, shakes his head slowly, before his face relaxes into acceptance, resignation. "Y'r the last thing...I get to...see."

"No, don't you dare give up on me," Molly scorns, gripping hold of James' vest with her spare hand. "Do you hear me? Don't you dare!" Fear grips her soul, heart hammers. "Smurf, where's that medevac?!"

"Less than a minute out!"

"S'okay, y'can let me go," James mumbles, doesn't open his eyes, lets out a huff of air.

"Stop it!" Molly yells, shakes him by the vest gently. "I'm gonna get you out of here."

"M'cold," he breathes, barely audible.

"I know, just hold on, please," Molly begs, before turning to the sound of rota blades chopping through the air, disturbing the otherwise quiet Afghan countryside. "Look, the cavalry is here," she huffs, a sound of relief, as she turns back to James, hand aching as she pinches even tighter. Her heart stammers as she registers the too still chest, the way his hand falls from his leg onto the hard ground, landing in the red puddle, his parted lips. "Boss?" She forces out, shoving his chest to try and rouse him. "Captain James?" She shoves him harder, heart skipping another beat as his head rolls. "Captain James!" She reaches her shaking hand across his body, presses two fingers against his exposed neck, isn't sure she can feel anything. "No, no, no," she chants, as she moves to slap his cheek, shake his arm, pinch his hand, punch his chest. "Wake up!"

She can hear footfalls behind her, probably the rest of the platoon she decides, though she couldn't care less, as she tries to rouse the Boss by calling his name, shaking him, pinching his cheeks. "Please!" she begs, shakes him one more time before someone is kneeling beside her, talking empty words she can't concentrate on. Her head throbs, she's sure she's going to be sick, and then someone is grabbing her by the shoulders, pulling her backwards as her hand is removed from James' leg before being replaced by a blue, gloved one. There's a flash of bright red – a hoist – and then the world greys, vision fades, before she gives in to a peaceful oblivion.

**Our Girl**

Molly takes her place at the front of the cold, stone church, shifts uncomfortably against the antique wooden pew, her eyes watering as she stares at the flower arrangement placed carefully around the ornate, wooden casket. She'd witnessed too many lives being lost on the battlefield, a few even on her last mission in Afghanistan, some of them innocent, some of them not so much. But this time, losing this life, hurts Molly the most.

The service is short; shorter than she would have liked, but still too long for Molly to sit through without getting a little bored. Sobs echo around the hollow building as the few people that have attended mourn, dabbing at eyes with tissues, or wiping hands over reddened faces, many of them the remaining soldiers of 2 section. A saddened smile plays on Molly's mouth as she seeks and finds her best friend, Smurf, sitting next to Mansfield Mike and Fingers, his ankle held in a brace – because it hadn't been broken, simply partially dislocated. He's hurting, she knows, even if he refuses to shed a tear, is biting his cheek to hold back any whimpers.

The church slowly empties, the casket hidden behind a thick, heavy drape; everyone filters out without speaking a word, heads bowed, shoulders slumped.

"You lot are well depressing," Molly huffs as she steps around an elderly lady - somebody that she doesn't recognise – gets ignored. Not that she could blame everyone; she's a little sad, too.

"Sir?"

The familiar voice grabs Molly's attention, and she turns to spot a red eyed Smurf, tears still refusing to fall, as he rushes past her, barely limping, as he heads for the tall, smartly dressed man, sporting a cane that reminds Molly of old, Chinese men.

"Smurf," Captain James greets, face sad, voice low, rough.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I just wanted to give you this," Smurf says as he moves to the side, onto a small patch of grass, out of the way of the exiting mourners, fist outstretched. James holds his hand out, palm up, and Molly rocks onto the balls of her feet, tries to see over the sea of heads, trying to get a better look.

"Smurf-" James sighs, but is cut off.

"I don't need it any more, Sir."

Molly squeezes past people, doesn't take the time to register faces, hurries over to her two favourite people.

"All right, lads?" she greets, before peering into James' still open hand, laughs when she spots the silver engagement ring that used to hang around her neck. "Oh, you soppy twat," she laughs at Smurf, before turning to James. "You should at least say cheers, instead of standing there looking like a gormless nob."

"Look, Smurf -"

"She's have said 'yes' to you, Sir," Smurf interrupts. "We both know that."

"No, you don't," Molly protests, face screwed up, huffs a snort of disapproval.

"I don't know, but thank you," James sighs, smiles softly. "I have to go, I need to get back to base." He closes his fist, grips the ring tight.

"Are you coming back, Boss?"

"I don't know, Smurf. Maybe."

"We all miss you, if that helps," Smurf shrugs one shoulder casually, and James' nods appreciatively, before he begins to turn away. "Just one more thing?" Smurf asks, before James' can leave, his eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, as if he's thinking hard. "Did it hurt?"

"My leg?"

"No," he shakes his head, lip quivers slightly. "Molly's head, Sir." Smurf points to his own, his eyes watering again. James licks at his lips, stares out at the setting sun disappearing beyond the large oak tree, before blinking a few times and facing Smurf again.

"No," he decides, shaking his head. "I don't think so."

"Well, then," Smurf says, clearing his throat, straightens his back, face masking into something that Molly can't put a name to – determination to override the pain, maybe. "That's okay, then." James waits for a second, before giving one, brief nod, then turns and slowly makes his way down the graveled path, his cane in hand, supporting his healing leg. Molly has no doubt that he shouldn't be walking yet, that he'd been too damn stubborn to sit at home, leg elevated, resting.

Molly takes a step back as Smurf eventually follows, watches as everyone slowly filters away, one by one, leaving her behind.

She'd done her job; saved James' life, given the Army her all, served Queen and Country, even has her brain slowly drowned in her own blood. A Sub-arachnoid haemorrhage caused by the trauma to the head after the explosion, the doctors had explained – not that her parents were listening, had lost all senses the second they'd heard 'I'm sorry' ushered from the solemn face. There's nothing anyone could have done, even if they medevac had miraculously arrived a few minutes earlier, and they'd declared it a miracle she'd even managed to do her job and save the Captain's life after the explosion.

Molly closes her eyes, tilts her head towards the darkening sky to feel the last, warm rays of the British summer sun as she slowly begins to fade away.

At least, Molly smiles to herself, she'd managed to see his face, so perfect and whole and full of life, one last time.


End file.
